


Sherlock Drabbles

by Aiisling



Category: Fables - Willingham, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Drabble, Fairy Tales, I Don't Even Know, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiisling/pseuds/Aiisling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Update: So I'm writing drabbles now, I guess, in addition to "In Silence We Take Flight." Oh well. Crackfic, let me count the ways I love thee. </p><p>Drabble 1: Fables</p><p>Sherlock Holmes has once again returned to Fabletown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fables

_Shortly After Reichenbach_

A too thin, too pale version of Sherlock Holmes was sitting on the edge of King Cole’s pool. He lit a cigarette. The flare from the match illuminated the bruises that were stamped across the right side of his face. Something wet and sticky matted his dark hair against his head.

“He’s back then, huh. Poor bastard.” Pinnochio stood beside Boy Blue, both of them staring out of the glass at the lone figure who sat smoking on the roof. “Dunno how he does it. Every couple ‘a decades, he goes out and tries to live with the mundy’s. And every damn time he meets John mother fucking Watson.”

“Least this one died quickly,” Boy Blue said, nervously fingering the trumpet that hung at his side. “Remember the last one? In the 1800’s?”

Pinnochio shuddered, and turned away from the glass. “I can’t watch this anymore. S’fucking sad.”

They made their way out of the apartment to the elevator that would take them to the lobby of the Woodlands building. As they went, they passed Bigby Wolf. The disheveled sheriff of Fabletown wore his usual scowl, an unlit cigar in his hand.

“Evenin,’” Pinnochio said.

Bigby just grunted.

The former Big Bad Wolf stepped onto the patio. He made his way over to Sherlock, sat down and removed his shoes and socks, then rolled his pants legs up and let his feet drop into the water. Wordless, he lit his cigar. Took a big puff. The two of them sat in silence for a long time before Bigby sighed.

“How bad this time?”

Sherlock sneered around his long cigarette. “Please don’t try and sympathize, Sheriff. It insults both of us.”

Bigby shrugged. “Fine. Business, then. Moriarty out of commission?”

“Until the next cycle.”

“And did anyone guess what you are?” 

The detective let out a derisive snort. “As if their tiny minds were even capable of such a deduction. The only one who might have guessed was John. And he…” Sherlock fell silent. Bigby glanced at him, and was unsurprised to see a thin gold band on Sherlock’s left hand. He didn’t comment. After a moment, Sherlock hauled himself to his feet.

“There’s nothing for you to worry about, Sheriff. Fabletown’s secret is still safe, as it was last time, and the time before that.”

Bigby took another puff on his cigar, then stubbed the end out on the cement beside him. “All right. Your apartment’s still open on Bullfinch street.”

Sherlock was already gone. Bigby inhaled, taking in the scents of blood and pain that lingered in the air, before standing himself and shedding his coat. It was midnight, and he was alone. A good time to take a swim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started reading Fables the other day and I might be just a little obsessed at the moment. This drabble took about 5 minutes to write, and is completely unbeta'd.
> 
> On an unrelated note, the next part of "In Silence We Take Flight" should be out in the next couple of days.


	2. Morpheus, and Little Red Riding Hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble 2: In which Sherlock also goes by the name Morpheus, God of Dreams, John is his consort, and Moriarty is a pesky nightmare with terrible taste.

 

 

 

“Are you bloody well kidding me?”

John looks around at the very spooky woods that surround him. There are glaring eyes in the trees and the branches all have claws at the end of them. Something swoops over his head and John ducks. When he looks up again a flying monkey is laughing at him in midair. It flies at him again with a chittering laugh, then zooms off into the trees. 

“Sherlock!” There is no reply. John grunts, and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Right, sorry, s’posed to use your real name in here. Morpheus! A little help, please?” John shouts, very rudely, for his lover. He is too irritated to bother with things like manners. One of Sherlock’s little nightmares has shoved him into a hackneyed excuse for a dream, and it is cold, and _he is not wearing his jumper_. This is not acceptable.  

“Any day now. I’m freezing!” 

A high pitched giggle comes out of the trees, and John holds his breath. A second later something heavy drapes over his shoulders;  he looks down to see that he now wears an honest-to-god red cloak. There is a strange thump, and his arm dips under the weight of a gingham basket. John lifts the cloth covering it. Inside is a small loaf of bread and a pot of jam.

The giggle rings out once more, and is followed by a high pitched voice with an Irish accent. 

“Daddy’s busy, Johnny boy! Time for us to play.”

John can hear the grin. He curses under his breath, but starts to walk down the path that’s just opened in front of him.

“Little pest,” he mutters, scanning the woods for more over-dramatic effects. He ducks his head as a tree swipes at him, hops over the root meant to trip him up. “Third bloody time this week.”

Something throws an acorn at the back of his head, and John whirls. 

“You’re a real wanker, you damn sprite,” he shouts into the spooky forest. In response, another acorn hits him in the nose. 

“Better hurry up afore wolfy gets you,” the Irish voice sing-songs in John’s ear. Close behind is a loud growl that actually makes John’s hair stand on end. 

“Yes, yes. No need to be so bloody _impatient,_ ” John calls back, and proceeds down the path once more, though faster this time. “Worse than Sherlock, you are, and God knows that’s saying something.”

John is a little worried. Not about the wolf, though that was certainly unpleasant. But Sherlock hadn’t shown up to put a stop to Moriarty yet. John had been irritated enough by the young nightmare in the past week to know that Sherlock rarely let Moriarty run free for so long. 

He picks up his pace, rolling his eyes when he sees the picture-perfect cabin in the clearing up ahead, complete with pink checked curtains and the scent of freshly baked cookies.

“Not very original, are you?” he mutters to himself as he hurries to the front door. There is a loud growl behind him, and the unmistakable sound of something launching into the air. John steps into the cabin and slams the door shut behind him, just as something rather heavy bangs into it. Outside, there is a painful whine, like an animal had just hit its head. John grins. 

“All right, Sherlock, where are you? I’d like to get some actual sleep tonight,” John says, hands on his hips as he surveys the little cabin. He is in a small room, consisting mostly of a four poster bed, a merry fireplace, and a small closet in the corner. John tilts his head, considering, then approaches the closet. 

When he pulls open the doors, he finds Sherlock- nee Morpheus- tied up in the corner and looking positively _murderous._

“How the devil did he manage this?” John says as he reaches in and pulls the gag out of Sherlock’s mouth. Moriarty had used a pair of John’s boxers to shut up the Dream God. John grins, holding them up. “Least this part’s a bit funny.”

Sherlock raises an aristocratic eyebrow, and gives John a once over as John unties his hands. Sneering, he says, “tell me, John. Where do you suppose he got those pants?”

John looks down himself, and sees that he is now naked underneath the red cloak. For a second, he debates whether or not to be angry, or to laugh. He settles with not giving a shit, and kneels to untie Sherlock’s feet. 

“You really need to do something about him,” John says, stepping back. He folds his arms and stands, stark naked except for the cloak, in the middle of the dream cabin. “If he’s this obnoxious to me, imagine what he’s doing to the mortals who _aren’t_ sleeping with the God of Dreams?”

Darkness gathers around Sherlock as he steps from the closet, until only his gray-green eyes are visible. There is a squeal outside, and a loud, nerve shattering growl; then a very high pitched, Irish voice screams, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Just call off the wolf!”

John cringes at what follows. There are a lot of snapping and slurping sounds, and a few screams. It will be a while before Moriarty can put himself back together again. 

The darkness fades. Sherlock is left grinning at his human and very naked lover. 

“It’s been taken care of. Now. Shall we go home and do something about that?” He leers down at John, then frowns and runs a finger down John’s red cloak. “But only if you take this off. And possibly burn it. I can’t abide rayon.”

“Not my fault your bloody nightmare has cheap taste in fabric,” John grumbles good naturedly, then shrugs and lets the cheap cloak drop. He steps into Sherlock’s embrace. Cool arms hold him tight; he shivers, and lets the God of Dreams pull him back to the waking world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one is pure 100% crack. No denying it. Crack-crack-crackity-crack. 
> 
> I'm supposed to be A) writing part III of "In Silence We Take Flight," B) packing to leave for Prague, and C) doing my homework. Instead I wrote this because reasons, okay?


	3. Tumblr Prompt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PS: You can find me on Tumblr here: http://hannahkollef.tumblr.com/  
> Or check out my website, HannahKollef.com, for information about my original book series.

**[ringaroundtheprose](http://ringaroundtheprose.tumblr.com/) prompted: “how about one where John and Sherlock swap bodies? And maybe kick their relationship up a notch? ;)”**

**Not sure this is exactly what she had in mind. But the mind works in mysterious ways, and mine took "body swap" to a more literal place. Unbeta'd.**

John was starving, covered in muck, and hadn’t slept in over 48 hours. Their latest case had begun with a lost dog, and ended here: in the sewers at midnight, with him crouched over the body of an old man, searching for the cause of death. Beside him Sherlock was peering inside the mouth of a second corpse. An old woman, strangled by her own pearls. 

John huffed in annoyance as he peeled back his corpse’s jacket, searching for blood or bruised skin. They had been sitting in the muck for over an hour and John was losing his temper. 

“Swap bodies with me, John,” Sherlock commanded, leaping with far too much energy over his own corpse. “This woman is dull. Clearly collateral damage. You’ve got the interesting corpse, he wasn’t killed in that suit.”

John looked down, pictured their murderer stripping the old man naked just to put him in a different outfit and then dump him in the sewers. Then he scowled, cursing his own lurid imagination. 

“Quickly, John!” 

“Hold your bloody horses,” the army doctor groused, standing and stretching a kink out of his back. Sherlock was already pushing him out of the way. The great consulting detective knelt in the mud, bringing his magnifying glass close to the dead man’s face as he searched for clues. 

“You’re lucky I love you, you bastard,” John muttered, then cursed at himself and his loose tongue. He hadn’t meant for the ‘L’ word to pop out like that. Certainly not in that setting. 

Sherlock froze over the man’s body. Tilting his head, he looked John over with analytical eyes, his face schooled to show nothing. Then he quirked his eyebrows in surprise. 

“You mean it,” he said. 

John blushed, but nodded. His heart hammered in his chest. Sherlock stared at him, not giving any indication of how he felt about the idea. Every muscle in John’s body urged him to run the hell away but a bit of his army courage raised its head. He took a deep breath. 

“Course, you wanker. Is this…” John gestured vaguely between the two of them, “going to be a problem?”

Sherlock studied him a moment longer, then turned back to his corpse. John felt his stomach plunge. Bile rose in his throat, and he thought of how this was going wrong, how he would have to move out of Baker Street, how-

“I should have thought it obvious that I return the sentiment.” Sherlock’s voice drifted over his shoulder. The consulting detective was once more studying the corpse in front of him, and John began to laugh, caught up in the absurdity of the moment. “Really, John. We have a case. Hurry and assist me.”

“Right, right, of course. We just declared that we love each other, and now its back to bodies. Not even a kiss.” But he was grinning, and his face felt like it would split in half. 

Sherlock, now with a finger up the dead man’s nose- John didn’t want to know- snorted disdainfully. “I expect that you will begin kissing me as soon as we return to the flat,” the detective said, and pulled something long and metallic out of the man’s right nostril. “This shouldn’t take too long.” Sherlock grinned and turned to John with a predatory look in his eye. “I’m finding that the promise of coitus is an exceptionally good motivator for my work.”

John grinned back, and pulled out a small plastic baggie. Sherlock slipped his evidence inside, then brushed his fingers deliberately against John’s.

**Author's Note:**

> I started reading Fables the other day and I might be just a little obsessed at the moment. This drabble took about 5 minutes to write, and is completely unbeta'd. 
> 
> On an unrelated note, the next part of "In Silence We Take Flight" should be out in the next couple of days.


End file.
